


and you can tear us apart but you won't break the skin

by bellmare



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bloodplay, Dark Month, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Dubious Consent, Mental Health Issues, Other, Self-Harm, Self-cest, Serial Killers, Strangulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 15:39:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellmare/pseuds/bellmare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his dreams, he's not alone. There is a girl -- a pretty, pretty girl with the same blue of his eyes; they are different sides of the same coin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and you can tear us apart but you won't break the skin

At the back of his mind, she sits in the bone-white silence and listens to the sound of her own tremulous breath.

 

_In, out. In, out._

 

She’s there when he least expects it, singing saccharine songs through the pathways of his consciousness – he’s tried to drive her out before, and sometimes it works.

 

Almost.

 

She returns just when he thinks she’s gone, when he’s lying awake in bed watching as dark shadows grow and lengthen across his ceiling. She sings him to sleep, benign and plaintive, even as she rakes desperate, grasping fingers through his every thought; her laughs start out high and giddy and desperate as the chalkboard screech of her pastel-painted nails against his skull, until she trails into sobs and retreats again.

 

_In, out, in, out._

 

She will be the death of him, this ghost of an imprint stamped across his synapses.

 

.

 

She’s been his constant companion for as long as he remembers – for as long as he cares to remember.

 

Before her voice, low and whispering, there was nothing. Before the touch of her cold, small hands, there was nothing. Perhaps somewhere, somehow, in another world there is a different boy called Roxas who doesn’t have a witch in his head, who screams and cries, sings and laughs as she blots over erratic patches of his memory.

 

He’s never seen her directly, but he knows her by the cool silk of her hair against his cheeks as dusk bleeds to dawn. He knows her by the perfect porcelain smoothness of her skin, by the dips and hollows of her hipbones; he feels her in the angry clench of her nails as she tears at his shoulders and the softness of her palms as she grasps him and strokes languidly with the nimble fingers of one accustomed to creating, by the sinew and tendon threaded along the backs of her hands that wrap around his throat and squeeze warningly – just enough to ache. He recognises her by the bitter strength of her thin arms as she presses his face into the bed and laps at his neck and jaw, by the pressure of her teeth against his throat – her hunger is his own; he brought this on himself.

 

He remembers her by the fine ridges of her spine and the swell of her breasts against the small of his back, by the tickle of her breath against his ear as she tells him her name and makes him memorise it, until she isn’t just _witch_ or _girl_ or _not-me_ , but _Naminé_.

 

.

 

When he was younger, they told him that the worst monsters are the ones that lurked underneath his bed; the ones that waited in the night to snare him if he’s not good, if he doesn’t sit tight and behave.

 

They were wrong, all wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

 

The worst monsters are the ones he sees in the mirrors; they are the pretty girls, delicate little fragile slips of things. They are pretty girls with narrow shoulders and mysterious smiles, with too-thin wrists and long, blonde hair. The worst monsters are not the ones that crack open his chest and paw away at his innards and feast until there’s nothing left; they are the ones who wield children’s implements – pencils and crayons and scraps of paper, who split his mind and hijack his every thought.

 

The worst thing about them, though, are the eyes.

 

They have his eyes.

 

.

 

She lives in his dreams. She occupies the place between light and darkness, in the no-man’s-land where his thoughts do not overlap. She fills the spaces in his brain and spreads her despair through his head, dancing pirouettes through his restless sleep as she shows him her world, the one that she protected him from.

 

He owes her. He owes her so much.

 

There’s a white room, all stark emptiness and the acrid tang of bleach. The only colour comes from a bouquet of flowers by his bedside table, garish in the bareness. It’s achingly familiar in a way he doesn’t want to know, familiar in ways which make Naminé shift in his mind. She recoils at the aroma of the flowers and instinctively curls her fingers into knotted fists, worrying away at the pain which builds in his temples.

 

Next to him there’s a man whose face is a cracked mask that hides something ugly, something foul and foetid which should not see the light; rot festers beneath the thin veneer of charm he cultivates. His palms are warm against Roxas’s wrists, but his smile is all venom as he leans in and whispers, _ma petite cherie._

 

The shiver which crawls up Roxas’s spine is not wholly his own.

 

This man is danger; he smells of death and violence, veiled by the scent of honeysuckle and lilies. When he kisses Roxas, he tastes of blood and decay, of wilting blooms left to atrophy in the sun, or the sickly sweetness of poison honey.

 

 _You’ll never be free of me, my sweet,_ he purrs.

 

It’s the first time he feels Naminé cry.

 

.

 

Naminé is vengeance; Naminé is destruction; Naminé is a restless spirit roaming in the confines of his mind, searching for a strawberry-blond man who tilts her (their) chin up and kisses her (them), whose hands wantonly roam her (their) body and marks her (them) with his mouth and smiles as red wells and blooms beneath her (their) skin.

 

 _Help me,_ she says. It’s a command, cold and clean, the syllables snipped between her teeth.

 

He hates mirrors, hates the way the light reflects two faces off their polished surfaces. He hates the guileless innocence of her too-blue eyes, and the way only he can see her, the way only he can see the shadows which dance and shift in her gaze.

 

 _Help me_ , she says. She reaches through the mirror and touches him. Her fingers ghost against his cheek, his jaw, his temple. _Find him._

 

He hates mirrors, for the way they draw him in, for the way they make him stop and stare as though looking into them long enough will banish her.

 

 _Find him,_ Naminé says, and pulls him close. When she kisses him, he feels only the scrape of her teeth and when he flinches away, there’s blood in his mouth. Her hand slips down the side of his face and to his throat; her nails press against his Adam’s apple and she strokes, urging him to swallow.

 

He wants to fight against her, but he knows it’s futile – she was born of him, and it’s all his fault.

 

He hates mirrors, has tried to destroy them before in the vain hope that it’ll drive her away. Perhaps not seeing confirmation of her existence helps – it’s what he tells himself the first time he tries, driving his fist through sheets of silvered glass. She only retreats out of disappointment – he should have known he’d not be rid of her so easily.

 

Roxas can no longer see his own reflection – there’s only her, and nobody else.

 

.

 

He hunts for her. They are no closer to their goal, but she insists on collateral. He understands because it’s the only thing that takes her mind off the frustration of not finding the man who haunts their dreams.

 

His sleep is more fitful than it ever was – she prowls and skitters around the edges of his thoughts when he’s awake; even when they both sleep, he can still feel her terror, blind and numbing, as she dreams of thorns and vines which string her up like meat from a slab.

 

She hungers for something to take the edge of her fear away, and he has no choice but to provide.

 

The first is a girl from overseas, with indigo eyes and flowers threaded through her auburn hair. She smells of summer, sweet and lively and it’s a shame, such a shame because her days are numbered from the moment he lays eyes on her. She draws Naminé in like a moth to a flame; Roxas watches from a distance as the girl lets him (them) into her life – it helps to dull the pain, until Naminé’s ennui returns and she’s seized by the same bloodthirsty wanderlust that makes her chase after the man with the smile like thorns.

 

He doesn’t know what she does; everything’s like a lucid dream. All he knows is that there’s blood on his hands and he needs to run fast, and run far.

 

.

 

The second is another girl, small-framed and gentle. She teaches him things, and almost makes him forget the storm-pale girl sleeping at the edges of his consciousness.

 

It’s not enough – Naminé is angry, too angry – she’s not the one to be forgotten, the one in charge of his (their) memories. She inhales sharply and sets down her crayons and charcoal with careful deliberation; he can see danger in the taut lines of her bare shoulders, in the pallid jut of her knuckles. She frowns down at her sketch-pad, and tears out the sheet – and then another, and another. Roxas feels sick. His world tilts and when it re-settles, there is no black-haired girl he walked to the beach and collected shells with, and there never was.

 

 _I’m sorry,_ Naminé says at last. _I’m so sorry. You’ll be fine, just sleep. I’ll set everything right again._

 

That is one of the first nights he remembers sleeping properly.

 

.

 

The third and fourth are his roommates, one a boy with a carefree smile and gentle hands, the other his brother who glares balefully at Roxas with burning amber eyes and pushes him up against the wall, snarling _I know you. I know who you really are._

 

Naminé likes the first boy, with the unruly hair and silly shoes. Her memories tell Roxas that he was the only one who visited her in her (their) lonely white cell, the only one who thought she (they) could ever recover – and he can feel her regret acutely, for catching him in the crossfire. _You were the only prince who came for me,_ she says and cries as she folds into herself. _You were the only prince who thought about saving the witch, too._

 

 _Sorry, sorry, sorry sorry sorrysorrysorrys o rry so r ry sor yso r asor a so ra sora,_ she chants as Roxas wraps his fingers around his neck and squeezes. The boy doesn’t make a sound, just stares silently at him (them) with too much hurt and resignation in his eyes. It’s enough. Naminé unravels; she draws great angry snarls of black lines and erases everything she’s carefully sketched out. He can hear her mourning; her keening keeps him up at night. With her, Roxas’s memories whirl and pick themselves apart and when they mend again, nothing seems to fit.

 

The other, she has no qualms about harming. He reminds her too much of the man, with his sneering eyes and callous laugh. He is cut from the same cloth as they are – all danger and sharp edges. He knows what comes next – because he’s done it all too many times himself.

 

He is strong, stronger than Roxas – and more experienced. He knows where to grip and where to crush and how to taunt. The pressure on Roxas’s throat is familiar – as are teeth against the curve of his jaw and the tongue lapping against his clavicle – but not like this.

 

Naminé hums with unease in his head; she dislikes the wait, the messiness, the way he claws at Vanitas’s hands and hooks his thumbs under his wrists, at the knot of bluish veins. She is precise and methodical and efficient – but this makes her uneasy.

 

There’s too much risk.

 

 This time, she is the one who moves their body. He can feel her in the way she curls his fingers into claws and drags them slowly down Vanitas’s face, how she manoeuvres Roxas’s elbow and slams it into the other’s chest. Roxas is oddly relieved because for once, she’s getting her hands dirty; for once, she’s not merely cleaning up the scene or his mind.

 

 _What are you doing,_ he wants to say when she tangles his fingers through Vanitas’s hair and wrenches his head up; there’s no fear in his poison-yellow eyes – only contempt. He bares his teeth in a mirthless smile.

 

“Give us a kiss, witch,” he says. “I know you’re there.”

 

Naminé stills, no longer seizing up where best to grip, which part of his throat would be the softest and most pliable; he doesn’t need to see her to know there is hatred in her eyes.

 

She slams his head down against the rug when Roxas kisses him; when she does, she makes sure he can feel her. He smiles all the while, even when they break apart, even when his lips are bruised and shiny and Roxas can still taste him, metallic and smoky. He wants to wipe his mouth but licks his lips instead; Naminé is ravenous – her appetite is his own.

 

 Vanitas tears at him in exchange, working his hand between them; Roxas jerks at his touch but Naminé stifles his instincts, pressing his palm flush against Vanitas’s pants.

 

He bucks against Roxas’s hand and growls, low and deep in his throat; he cards his hands through Roxas’s hair and pulls his head down as he reverses their positions with a twist of his hips and _grinds_ and Roxas can feel his heat through the folds of fabric between them, a growing discomfort which builds with painful intensity when Vanitas’s hands release his head and wind around his neck instead.

 

His vision clouds; Naminé stirs and he can feel her clarity even as his world blurs and fades

 

 _Help me,_ he whispers back to her. _Help me._

 

She lifts his foot and twists his hips away from Vanitas’s and kicks. The side of his knee smashes against Vanitas’s ribs and he hisses; his chokehold loosens and he’s deadweight, spasming and wheezing.

 

Naminé pins him down with hands and knees and smiles thinly. Roxas closes his eyes as she places his hands on either sides of Vanitas’s face and _twists_.

 

_Crack, crack, crack._

 

He owes her. He owes her so much.

 

.

 

He’s tired, so tired of everything. He’s tired of chasing shadows and running, of waking up with different memories every day. Naminé’s voice rises to a crescendo in his skull; he’s lost count of the number of nights he’s spent huddled in the darkness, picking mirror shards from his knuckles. It’s a certain kind of sickness that keeps him going back, his own brand of foolhardy belief that destroying what makes him see her will force her to go away.

 

She’s still there, like she always has been, drawing and constructing. She’s done good work on his memories – but he’ll always remember the faces of the four he killed for her.

 

Their portraits line his jumbled, disjointed memories. He wonders who they were, before they were unfortunate enough to meet him.

 

In his head, Naminé stills, thin fingers wrapped around brittle chalks. _Do you want me to make you forget everything?_ she asks. The chalk snaps in her hand – like vertebrae, shifting and twisting too far. She sounds so tired and so bitter, because he knows he’s failed in their goal – she’s had enough, he realises. She’s unravelling at the seams, held together only by his conviction; she’s throwing him a lifeline, even as she herself drowns.

 

 _No_ , he says softly. _I am my own person. I make my own choices._

 

.

 

The fifth is the man with murder in his eyes, the one who starts it all. He visits Roxas and leaves a bouquet on the doorstep – the very same from long before. Their stems are brittle; the petals are preserved in formaldehyde packets, wrapped around the blooms.

 

“I trust you have been well,” he says.

 

Naminé tenses. He is the same as she (they) remembers – from the cruel blue of his eyes to the crooked curve of his smile. Today, his coat is open at the neck; Roxas stares fixedly at the pulse beating lazily beneath his skin.

 

“I’ve missed you,” Marluxia says.

 

 _Liar,_ Naminé spits. _Liar, liar, liar._

 

“You missed fucking me,” Roxas corrects blandly. “You missed fucking _with_ me.”

 

Marluxia chuckles, low and uncaring. He brushes his knuckles against Roxas’s jaw. “What have you been up to?”

 

“Practising everything you taught me,” Roxas replies automatically. He thinks of the stark white room and his first visitor, who kisses his cheek and issues his challenge as a price for freedom. “All the better to end you with, and all.”

 

.

 

Killing him is the easiest of all. Maybe it’s because he’s been expecting it; maybe it’s because he’s gotten tired of waiting. He doesn’t smirk knowingly when Roxas steps aside to allow him into the apartment; he doesn’t react when Roxas plunges the knife into his back – _between the third and fourth ribs,_ Naminé whispers, fingers ghosting over anatomical sketches – and twists. He only smiles patronisingly, faint and disappointed, as he doubles over and hacks bloody gobbets of phlegm over Roxas’s shoes.

 

“Once a failure, always a failure,” he says, and he’s still laughing even as he goes down.

 

.

 

They sit in the still and cloying silence and listen to the sound of their own tremulous breaths.

 

_In out in out in out in_

_Out._

**Author's Note:**

> For Dark Month 2012.


End file.
